Back when my head like an egg in a nest was vowel-keen and dawdling, I shed my slick beautiful and put it in a basket and laid it barefaced at the river among the taxing rocks. My beautiful was all hush and glitter. It was too moist to grasp. My beautiful had no tongue with which to lick—no discernable wallowing gnaw. It was really a breed of destruction like a nick in a knife. It was a notch in the works or a wound like a bell in a fat iron mess. My beautiful was a drink too sopping to haul up and swig! Therefore with the trees watching and the beavers abiding I tossed my beautiful down at the waterway against the screwball rocks. Even then there was no hum. My beautiful was never ill-bred enough, no matter what you say. If you want my blue yes everlasting, try my she, instead. Try the why not of my low down, Sugar, my windswept and wrecked.
I love-love-loved the alphabet
back when I could use it to go OMG & WTF
vis-à-vis some shady late capitalist wrongdoing
such as the rich & famous floating off the continent
in the most flagrant of boats, leaving just
the youngsters & me here on the prairie
to keep everything intact with just this sugar on the mantle
in its charismatic tin. But then the youngsters
got up from the knitting circle & put down their seedcakes
& other organic whatsits, saying OMG & WTF to me
as in in reference to me like what I had on was not just
the dress, the feeling unfortunately was, but also
a shawl as in a cloak as in a stole as in a shroud.
That’s when I finally knew what animals
youngsters just naturally are. What piles of tractor parts.
What fishheads in a sink! So now I’m using my Rosetta Stone
to examine the language of rhinos for the impenetrable skin
& the language of axes for the battle for when our foes return
to knock down our pretty little door. & here
I just wanted to sit out the rest of my days
with my sweeties by the hearth & talk the talk to hold at bay
whatever apocalyptic thing’s got our number as in our address
as in the extent to which we were born to fight moneyed reprobates
with just our lingo as in our candidness & cheeky verbal fluidity
if that’s what you want to call running out the clock on the ends of things
in an old lonesome song like this.